One of the only pieces of my mother we had left.
And I know it because Leah cried for three days straight when she realized Vanna had stolen it.
Cried until she couldn't cry anymore, until her eyes were so swollen she could barely see, and I held her and promised her I'd get it back.
I never did.
Because Vanna had already traded it.
For product. For poison. For the disease that's been eating her alive since before I understood what addiction really meant.
And this piece of shit kept it.
All these years. He kept it like a trophy.
"Where did you get this?" My voice is barely recognizable. Something has gone very still inside me, very cold, very quiet.
Virgil's eyes dart to the box, then back to me.
I watch him calculate, watch him try to figure out which lie might save him.
"I—your wife—she traded it for?—"
"I know what she did." I stand, the jewelry box in my hand. It's lighter than I remember. Or maybe I'm just stronger now. "She stole it from my sister. From my family. And you kept it. All these years. You kept it like it meant something to you."
"I can give it back! I'm giving it back right now! Take it, man, just take it and let me go?—"
"Let you go." I tuck the jewelry box into my jacket, settling it against my chest, close to my heart. Where it belongs. Where it should have been all along. "You think this is about the jewelry?"
I turn back to him, and whatever he sees in my face makes him scramble backward, clawing at the floor, keening like a wounded animal.
"You think I rode all the way out here for a box with my mother's necklace inside?" I advance on him slowly, deliberately. "You think I put together a war party—you think I called my brothers away from their families, their lives, everything they care about—for jewelry?"
"Please—"
"This is about my fuckin’ wife." I grab him by the collar and haul him upright, ignoring his screams as his ruined knee takeshis weight. "This is about my child. This is about every single thing you've ever taken from people who couldn't fight back."
I slam him against the wall, and his head cracks against the wood hard enough to leave a dent.
Blood trickles down the back of his neck.
"Ruger." I don't look away from Virgil's face. I want to see every flicker of fear, every moment of realization as he understands what's coming. "You carrying a blade?"
A pause.
Then the sound of leather against metal as Ruger reaches into his boot and draws out his hunting knife.
The blade is maybe six inches, serrated on one edge, sharp enough to shave with.
We all carry them.
Part of the life.
He hands it to me without a word.
Virgil's eyes go so wide I can see the whites all the way around. "No—no, wait—please—I know people—I can disappear—you'll never see me again, I swear to God?—"
"That's exactly right." I test the blade's edge against my thumb, watching a thin line of blood well up. Sharp. Good. "I'll never see you again."
